Work as two, succeed as one.
—PA ABNER
Nursing their cuts and bruises, the Lost Causes hiked back through the tunnels and the Antechamber of the Palace and ascended the spiral path. Once they reached the opening, Keech called up to John Wesley, who lowered a rope. One by one, John lifted them through the Chimney.
By the time they returned to the outer wall, evening was upon the canyon. The sky’s unnatural purple had faded to a fair crimson, and the incessant rumble of thunder was now nothing more than a dying murmur. At the sight of the young riders, Achilles dashed about in happy circles and covered Quinn with slobbery licks. The dog then led the team to O’Brien, who rested against a large rock, waiting in silence.
Thunder Pass was a turmoil of thrall corpses, fallen Weavers, and shattered stick creatures. With the help of John Wesley’s Chamelia pack, O’Brien and Sheriff Turner had obliterated Rose’s horde. Only one of the Chamelia had fallen during the battle, and it was from a deadly wound inflicted by Lost Tucker.
Strong Heart inquired about the Weaver boss’s fate.
“She crumbled to dust the moment you sealed the Rift,” O’Brien said. “The rest of her Weavers went with ’er. Darkness can’t live when the light shines on it. And today, you tadpoles brought the light.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” said Quinn.
Sam peered over the battleground, surveying the piles of thrall and Weaver bodies. “O’Brien, where’s the sheriff? Where is Bose?” he asked.
O’Brien lowered her head. “Follow me,” she said.
She led the Lost Causes down a rocky trail to the riverbank, several yards away from the battleground. Lying on a shaded, sandy spot near the Rattlebrook was Sheriff Turner.
The lawman’s head rested on his faded horse blanket, and his eyes were closed, as if he were merely napping by the water. O’Brien had crossed his hands over his broad chest.
When Sam saw him, he dashed over to the sheriff’s side and slumped to his knees in the sand. Keech and the others gathered behind him. Keech noticed a tiny hole in Sheriff Turner’s leather vest—the place where a thrall’s lead ball had apparently ended his life—and a hitching sob caught in his throat.
“I’m so sorry, tadpoles,” O’Brien said, slipping off her hat. “He stood tall the whole time. I ain’t never seen a man fight so valiantly.”
Hunkered over the sheriff, Sam said, “On the trail to find you, Keech, I wanted to turn back so many times. I told myself it wouldn’t be no use to keep looking for you. But Sheriff Turner wouldn’t let me quit. He’d say, ‘Let’s ride another mile or two. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a horse track.’ So we’d ride another mile, then another, then another. He never let me give up.” Sam stopped to let a hitching sob run its course. “He was my friend.”
Keech dropped to his knees beside Sam. “He stood tall with all of us.”
Behind them, O’Brien murmured, “Before he passed, Turner said he wanted to give somethin’ to yer group. He pointed to his saddlebag and said to tell ya, ‘Now it’s official.’”
Letting Sam tarry by Turner’s side, Keech stepped over to the sheriff’s horse. He opened the saddlebag, peered inside, and saw a few small objects waiting, winking up at Keech with a metallic gleam. Feeling a hard lump form in his throat, Keech brought them out.
He showed a handful of silver star-shaped badges to the Lost Causes. Imprinted on each star were the words DEPUTY SHERIFF. Keech felt tears steal into his eyes. “The sheriff deputized us back in Bone Ridge Cemetery, but he didn’t have any stars to make it official.”
“You know what that means, amigos? Means you’re real lawdogs now.”
The voice came from farther up the bank, and everyone spun around to meet it. To Keech’s surprise, Cutter came limping up the bank of the Rattlebrook. Though he looked terribly battered and his bandana still covered his missing eye, he moved with a curious strength. John Wesley walked a few steps behind in his human form.
“Cutter!” Strong Heart exclaimed.
“How in blazes are you still alive? We saw you die!” said Quinn.
After reaching them, Cutter propped himself up on John Wesley’s shoulder. “I near did. But then I remembered, I ain’t no good at goodbyes. So I asked John here to help me out. He cut me with his claw and aquí estoy.”
“But you’re infected now!” Duck said.
“That’s right. I’m a Chamelia. But that means I can go with my amigo. We don’t never have to be apart again.” Then, grinning, Cutter added, “And now I can do this.” He lifted his hands, concentrated for a second, and beamed with pride as his fingernails sprouted razor-sharp claws.
John Wesley placed a hand on Cutter’s shoulder. “We should go. The pack’s callin’.”
Keech said, “Wait, John. I’ve got something to give you.”
Like a curious dog, John Wesley’s head tilted sideways.
Keech held up the satchel containing Eliza Doyle’s remains. “Your father’s been carrying this knapsack. It holds the bones of your sister. I figured you’d want to give her a proper burial.”
Looking stunned, John Wesley accepted the satchel. After slipping the sack’s long strap around his waist, he said, “I sure am sorry for all the trouble Papa stirred.”
Keech said, “He was a good man, in the end. He turned back to the light just in time. His last words were for you and Eliza. He wanted you to know he was sorry for what he did. And that he loved you.”
Tears burned in John Wesley’s scarlet eyes. “Much obliged,” he said, wiping his face. He turned as if to scurry away but stopped himself. “Keech?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for standin’ tall.”
Keech felt a strange shiver run down his body, the kind of shiver that could be sorrow but could also be joy. “You too, Big John. You too.”
As John Wesley waited near the woods, Cutter stepped up to his palomino, Chantico, who peered at the boy with a kind of curiosity. Placing his forehead on the mare’s neck, Cut whispered something to her, then offered her reins to O’Brien. “Señora, if you would, take care of Chantico for me. I can’t take her where I’m going.”
Accepting the reins, O’Brien said, “I’ll make sure she finds her way.”
“Gracias,” Cutter said; then he turned to Keech. “Well, Lost Cause, I reckon this is it.”
Keech didn’t want to say goodbye, but there was nothing for it. “So long, Miguel. I hope our paths cross again.”
Cutter’s wide grin revealed rows of new fangs. “Don’t you worry, amigo. We’ll see each other again. If you ever find yourself in trouble, look to the woods. You’ve got friends.”
“I’ll remember that,” Keech said, smiling.
After exchanging their final farewells, Cutter and John Wesley turned to leave. As they shuffled toward the tree line, both boys shifted. Black scales emerged across their hides, and long, prickly spines sprouted from their backs. Their faces stretched into toothy muzzles, and they hunched forward to scurry on all fours.
The Chamelia disappeared down the river, and soon after, two triumphant howls echoed across Thunder Pass.